


an incomplete list of reasons (why Clarke loves Lexa)

by RaeDMagdon



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bath Sex, F/F, Fingering, Morning Sex, Oral, Oral Sex, Strap-Ons, Vanilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 09:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeDMagdon/pseuds/RaeDMagdon
Summary: When they sit together in the bath like this, with Lexa’s back pressed against her front, Clarke sweeps the damp strands of Lexa’s brown hair aside to kiss the broken tattoo. Under her lips, it is whole. Lexa is whole.





	an incomplete list of reasons (why Clarke loves Lexa)

**Author's Note:**

> Just some fluff. Please follow me on tumblr @raedmagdon if you haven't already.

There is a streaky scar on Lexa’s abdomen that Clarke loves running her fingers over.

For the first few months after… well, after… she had forced herself to touch it. She had probed at the wound’s hot edges, checking the stitches for infection. She had cleaned it time and time again, just to make sure, until it had scarred into a solid white star.

Even after Lexa finished healing, Clarke had kept touching it. These days, she does it almost without thinking. It’s a constant reminder that Lexa has survived—that Clarke’s nightmares are only nightmares. It’s proof that she has kept Lexa among the living through the fierceness of love alone.

There is also the dotted infinity symbol on the back of Lexa’s neck. Clarke’s lips are drawn to it whenever she holds Lexa from behind, as she is doing now. When they sit together in the bath like this, with Lexa’s back pressed against her front, Clarke sweeps the damp strands of Lexa’s brown hair aside to kiss the broken tattoo. Under her lips, it is whole. Lexa is whole.

That is how she loves to spend these golden afternoon moments most, kissing the back of Lexa’s neck and running her fingers softly over the flat, uneven plane of Lexa’s stomach.

The rest of Lexa’s body is equally flawed, but altogether magnificent. She has other scars, one on her arm that Clarke remembers specifically—it is from the pauna that almost killed them both. Lexa has countless tiny white nicks around her knuckles too, thanks to swords and daggers. She has one on her lower back, another on her left thigh, but none between her shoulderblades, where most Grounders have them to mark kills. Instead, there is the other tattoo: the one that carries secrets that took ages for Lexa to trust her with.

Clarke is jealous of the drops of water that run down Lexa’s spine, following the design. She would chase after them with her tongue if Lexa wasn’t already resting in her arms. That is another thing Clarke loves—the way Lexa fits in her arms and the way she fits in Lexa’s. It doesn’t matter the position, or who is holding who. Their bodies find a way to melt.

It isn’t just about how their curves fit, but about the trust it takes for both of them to relax this way. Their trust is hard-earned, having been built and rebuilt from scratch several times. Years ago, Clarke would never have imagined this moment, let alone this life, for herself. She would have killed Lexa on sight instead of sharing a warm bath with her, naked and vulnerable.

Clarke sighs, tucking her face into the crook of Lexa’s throat. She loves Lexa’s scent too. Thanks to the bath’s steam, she mostly just smells warm, but there is a hint of sharp, sweet pine that never leaves thanks to Lexa’s lotion. Clarke doesn’t know what’s in it, exactly, but the scent has become a staple in her life. When she smells it, she’s home.

Lexa leans back to rest against Clarke’s shoulder, her eyes closed.  _ “Ai tombom,” _ she sighs, and Clarke’s heart swells, not simply because of the words, but because of Lexa’s voice. As  _ Heda, _ it is sharp and commanding, with an edge of steel that cuts above the loudest shouts. As Lexa, it is tender enough to strip down every one of Clarke’s walls. She loves this voice, Lexa’s voice, enough to follow it anywhere.

But Clarke does not object to a little bit of _Heda_ showing through, either. She had been fascinated with _Heda_ before she knew Lexa. She had been entranced with, and afraid of, the woman who stood above all others. While she had struggled to lead ninety nine, and then forty seven, of her fellow delinquents, _Heda_ _Leksa_ had commanded hundreds of thousands without the slightest sag in her shoulders, acting as though she had been born to the burden.

It didn’t come easily, of course. Clarke had learned that later, and it had only made Lexa more awesome in her eyes. Lexa is human—flawed, broken, stitched back together sloppily in some places. She feels the weight of every decision, every death, every mistake. It is this realization, Clarke thinks, that allowed her to fall in love: truly, deeply in love.

Lexa shifts slightly in the circle of her arms, yawning before settling again. Clarke smiles. Holding Lexa like this is like holding a wild animal while it sleeps, a fierce, hungry beauty gone miraculously soft. But Lexa cannot doze off this way, no matter how comfortable she is. Not in the water, at least.

“Lexa,” Clarke whispers, kissing her lover’s temple. “Lexa…”

With a groan, Lexa opens her eyes.

Even though she sketches in charcoal, playing with line and shadow, Clarke cannot forget the color. It is painted in her mind clearly, and it is there to stay forever.

_ “Niladon.” _

Clarke’s lips twitch in a smirk. That pet name… Perhaps Lexa wants her to kneel today. Perhaps that is why she’s using it.

“You were almost asleep. You should get in bed.”

Lexa raises her head slightly, squinting against a harsh stream of light pouring in from one of the high windows. It has fallen across her face, and the adorable wrinkle in her nose almost makes Clarke snort with laughter. “In the middle of the afternoon?”

“You tell me. How tired are you?”

With a low groan of effort, Lexa turns in Clarke’s arms, flipping over to face her. The wet strands of her hair fall around her face, and she blinks sleepily before leaning in to taste Clarke’s lips.

Their kisses are another thing Clarke loves. They warm and soft, never the same twice, but always familiar.

“I am not tired,” Lexa murmurs when their lips part with a pop. Though her voice is low, it is insistent.

Clarke places one of her hands on Lexa’s back, palm flat, fingers splayed. Lexa’s skin is hot to the touch. “Then what are you going to do with yourself?”

“A better question would be,” Lexa says, “what am I going to do with you?”

Clarke trembles despite herself. Lexa has always been able to undo her with a single touch, even a single look. It takes an effort of will to bracelet Lexa’s wrist and halt the progress of her hand. “You can do whatever you want to me, but not here. In bed.”

Lexa sighs, but seems resigned. With another kiss, to the corner of Clarke’s mouth this time, she rises onto her knees, then to her feet.

As she stands, Clarke is treated to a breathtaking view. Not only is she granted the chance to admire Lexa’s firm abdominal muscles, shining with stray water droplets, but soon, her face is level with the dark thatch of hair between Lexa’s legs. The pink lips beneath are parted, and Clarke can see wetness there, wetness that is not from the bath.

She sucks her lower lip between her teeth, running her tongue over it. The memory of Lexa’s taste is already rising in her mouth.

Lexa’s fingers sift through her damp hair, and for a moment, Clarke thinks her head will be pulled forward. But no. Lexa is only teasing. She steps out of the bath, reaching for one of the nearby towels and wrapping it around her body before passing a second towel to Clarke.

She takes it reluctantly. Even though she had been the one to request the bed, she is impatient. Moments ago, she had been content to rest with her lover in the warm water for as long as possible, but now, the inches between them feel like miles. She wants Lexa back in her arms.

Clarke wraps the towel around her head to dry her hair, then presses herself up against Lexa’s back, kissing the tattoo at the nape of her neck yet again. She sucks slightly, enough to make Lexa hiss, before Lexa turns and seizes her hips.

“Patience,” Lexa murmurs, not quite an order, but close.

Clarke smirks. She has never been patient in her life.

Neither of them do a thorough job of drying off. Their skin is still damp in several places by the time they throw their towels onto the floor beside the bath and head back into the bedroom they share. Clarke shivers slightly at the difference in temperature. She can feel rivulets of water she didn’t bother to sweep away evaporating from her skin.

Lexa strides over to the bed with purpose. Taking a seat on its edge, she turns her gaze to Clarke, waiting expectantly.

For a moment, Clarke simply drinks in the sight. She loves the way Lexa looks with the afternoon sunlight falling on her face, covering her tanned skin in tawny stripes. It reminds her of the day they almost said goodbye but didn’t—a memory both painful and precious, and one she revisits often despite the twinge of fear it causes.

She takes a deep breath.

Today is different. Lexa is alive, and there are hundreds of things to love about her.

Clarke sways forward to stand between Lexa’s spread knees, her eyes roaming down from Lexa’s firm breasts to the treasure between her thighs. In this new seated position, there is more gleaming pink flesh on display. The button of Lexa’s clit is red and hard, straining beneath its hood.

Although Clarke is tempted to drop to her knees and place a kiss to the tip, she resists the urge. She needs to make Lexa work for it, at least a little bit. Instead, she swings one leg over Lexa’s lap, straddling her and placing both hands on her shoulders.

A small smirk is Clarke’s only warning before Lexa grasps her hips and flips her over. With their positions reversed, Clarke can only gasp in approval as Lexa climbs on top of her, covering her in a blanket of warmth. She doesn’t weigh much, but her muscles are strong, and Clarke can feel power radiating from her body. If holding Lexa while she sleeps is like holding a slumbering predator, holding her while she’s awake is even more exhilarating.

Clarke runs her hands along Lexa’s smooth back, feeling the softness of her skin, the lean strength in her shoulders. Lexa is a woman who looks and feels like a goddess, and sometimes, simply touching her makes Clarke want to cry. But not this time. This time, all she feels is gratitude—gratitude and a healthy portion of desire.

One of Lexa’s thighs slides between Clarke’s knees, riding up to press against the ache building between her legs. Clarke bucks on instinct, pushing against the flat surface, and is rewarded with a low murmur and a gentle nip to her earlobe. “You’re wet,  _ niladon,” _ Lexa says, clearly proud.

“For you,” Clarke whispers. She digs her nails in between Lexa’s shoulder blades, grinding a little harder. She wants to paint her wetness along Lexa’s skin, to leave her mark there. Just as she is Lexa’s, Lexa is hers.

“I am too.” Lexa kisses her again, deeper than before, pressing her tongue between Clarke’s lips and sweeping it just shy of her teeth. It isn’t until she pulls back, leaving Clarke gasping, that she continues. “Do you want to feel?”

Clarke doesn’t wait for Lexa to guide her hand. She shoves it between their bodies, sliding it around Lexa’s hip and delving into the heat between her thighs. Lexa is wet, just as wet as she is. She’s dripping, and Clarke groans as the hot, sticky strands run along her fingers. She knows she’ll find even more slickness if she pushes inside, but when she searches out Lexa’s entrance, Lexa lifts her hips away.

“What are you doing?” Clarke asks, unsure whether she should be annoyed.

Lexa smiles down at her, but it isn’t a wicked smile of denial. It’s still tender. “Making this last.”

Clarke smiles back. She likes it when these moments last. She remembers all too clearly how close she came to losing them forever.

As Lexa’s mouth descends from her lips to her chest, kissing and licking pale patches of skin until they’re rosy pink, Clarke lets herself go. She stops trying to rub herself against Lexa’s hip. She stops trying to slide her fingers into Lexa’s heat. She resists the temptation to offer directions by pulling Lexa’s wet hair. Instead, she offers herself up to be devoured.

And Lexa wastes little time devouring her. After grazing Clarke’s collarbone with the very edge of her teeth and teasing the throbbing pulse point at the crook of Clarke’s throat, she moves lower still, blowing a cool stream of air across one of Clarke’s puckered nipples.

Clarke chews on her lower lip, stifling a gasp. The cold is a sharp contrast to the warmth of Lexa’s body on top of hers. Her nipple throbs, straining into empty air—until Lexa draws it between her lips. Suddenly, the stiff peak is on fire. Lexa’s tongue swirls around it, never quite touching the tip, and Clarke’s inner walls pulse. Her clit throbs with jealousy while more wetness leaks out to stain her thighs.

By the time Lexa releases the aching bud and kisses across to the other one, Clarke has almost forgotten her decision to lie back and bask in Lexa’s attention. Her impatience gets the best of her, and she grasps the back of Lexa’s neck, trying to guide her. But Lexa does not allow herself to be guided. She tends to Clarke’s breasts at her own pace, avoiding the tips until Clarke goes limp and stops trying to direct her.

Lexa remains there, teasing Clarke’s nipples to painful hardness and letting the cold air dry the clear wetness on them, until Clarke is a shaking mess. Her stomach clenches at uneven intervals. Her breaths come shallow and short. Since pulling Lexa’s hair has gotten her nowhere, she fists the furs beneath her instead, twisting the short strands between her fingers and turning her face sideways to mutter into the pillow. She can only say one word. “Lexa…”

This is another thing Clarke loves—and hates—about Lexa. She feels deeply, so very deeply, but she never allows her emotions to rule her, either. She is content to take her time and wait for the things she wants.

When Lexa’s mouth winds a wandering trail past her sternum, Clarke’s every muscle stiffens. She spreads her thighs, hopeful, but Lexa does not slide between them. She nuzzles Clarke’s ribs. She noses the dip of Clarke’s navel, sucking a patch of skin there until it’s bright pink, just like the marks on her breasts. She kisses back and forth, back and forth between Clarke’s hipbones, painting lines with her tongue across the subtle curve of Clarke’s lower belly. Lexa seems to love that part of her. She often splays her hand across it while murmuring sweet things.

“Lexa,” Clarke gasps, propping herself up on her elbows. She stares down at her lover, and Lexa must see something desperate and urgent in the blaze of her eyes.

“Lie back,  _ niron.” _

Lexa ducks both shoulders beneath her knees, running her hands up along Clarke’s thighs to grip her ass. This time, her touches aren’t teasing, but firm with purpose. She has a singular goal in mind—and that is yet another thing Clarke loves, because Lexa always achieves her goals.

The first hot puff of Lexa’s breath against her sensitive folds makes Clarke giggle. It’s more ticklish than she’s expecting, but Lexa makes up for it by swiping her flattened tongue from the base of her entrance all the way up to her swollen clit. Clarke groans and flops back on the bed. She isn’t sure how Lexa can light up every nerve between her legs at once.

She starts to grasp the furs beneath her again, then thinks better of it and reaches down, lacing her fingers through Lexa’s where they rest near the tops of her thighs. Lexa holds both hands willingly, and their fingers remain linked as she sets to work.

Lexa’s tongue is absolutely wicked. It finds all her secret places. Clarke can’t help whimpering as Lexa draws her clit out from beneath its hood and starts to suck. The warmth sealed around her tip shoots deep within her core like the piercing point of an arrow. More wetness pours from her to coat Lexa’s chin.

Soon, Lexa releases her to seek it out. She teases Clarke’s outer lips first, scattering kisses across them, then sucks on the inner ones just long enough to make Clarke start squeezing her hands in desperation. At last, she plunges her tongue inside, stretching Clarke’s entrance open and curling forward to gather up all the slippery heat spilling out of her.

A guttural sound bubbles up from within Clarke’s chest. Lexa’s tongue can reach so deep—not as deep as her fingers, but far enough to prod the special spot inside her. That is another thing Clarke loves. Lexa has made a map of her body and committed it to memory. She always strikes her mark.

Clarke begins to rock, seeking out some sort of rhythm, but Lexa brings their joined hands to Clarke’s hips, pressing down to keep her from lifting. The message is silent, but absolutely clear: stay.

So Clarke stays, shaking with the effort of holding still, thighs spread wide as Lexa’s tongue pushes in and out of her. Sometimes, Lexa withdraws completely, licking up every drop of the mess Clarke has made on the way up to suck her clit. She traps it for a few strokes, swirling her tongue around and around, before releasing it again and diving back down.

The alternating methods of torture soon have Clarke on the brink. Her clit aches for Lexa’s mouth. Her inner walls ache for Lexa’s tongue. But she can only have one at once, and her eyes begin to water in frustration. Her fingers twitch in Lexa’s grip, but Lexa holds them tighter, and Clarke huffs angrily, already short of breath. Lexa won’t allow her to touch her own clit and end this.

“Lexa,” she gasps through trembling lips. “Lexa, please…”

Yet another reason Clarke loves Lexa: strong as she is, her lover has never been able to resist her pleas. Not when Clarke begged her to spare Arkadia, and  _ especially  _ not when Clarke begs to come.

Lexa solves the problem by opening her mouth wide, so the tip of her tongue can pass back and forth between Clarke’s entrance and the root of her clit. She applies pressure, a little suction, and Clarke screams. It is enough. She squirms on top of the furs with only the tight grasp of Lexa’s hands to ground her.

She loves how Lexa can carry her up to visit the stars while still keeping her tethered firmly to the earth. The ripples of her orgasm are strong enough to blot them out, though. All she sees is a blinding flash of white. It’s a pity, because she wants to see Lexa’s face—her eyes most of all. Those beautiful eyes always seem so much brighter when she has made Clarke come.

Clarke isn’t able to make sense of the vision between her legs until her pleasure passes. At last she can see some of Lexa’s expression, and it is aglow with love and well-deserved pride. Clarke smiles until her cheeks hurt. Her stomach is still twitching.

Lexa lifts her head, licking her lips, and Clarke cannot help but admire the clear glaze covering her chin. Lexa’s face is more of a mess than when she wears her warpaint. “Kneel for me,” she says, although her eyes constantly scan Clarke’s face for any objections.

Clarke gathers her strength. She loves that Lexa is never quite finished with her, never quite satisfied. She flips over onto her stomach, removing her knees from behind Lexa’s shoulders. With a soft groan, she rises onto her hands and knees, stretching out the quivering ache in her limbs.

She waits, expecting Lexa to climb over her, or at least kneel behind her. Instead, the mattress dips. Lexa has left to rummage in one of the bedside drawers. Clarke smirks behind the curtain of her falling hair, where Lexa cannot see. That is another thing to love, how full of surprises Lexa is.

Clarke listens for the soft whisper of leather and the low groans that mean Lexa has almost finished equipping herself. Using toys isn’t new to them, but she remembers a time when Lexa had struggled to ease the shorter end of the leather shaft inside herself and do up the straps around it. Lexa and Costia had not had much time to practice this part before… well, before. Clarke had been her teacher instead, and Lexa had quickly progressed from student to master—or, rather, masterful.

Clarke’s inner walls pulse with the memory of her orgasm and the anticipation of another. She is eager to come again, only this time, Lexa will be buried inside of her. If there is one thing she loves most of all, it must be that: holding Lexa deep within herself and refusing to let her go, just the way her heart already does.

After a sigh of success and relief, Lexa climbs back onto the mattress. Clarke catches a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror behind the headboard. Lexa’s eyes are dark and burning and the set of her jaw is determined. Clarke’s thighs tense. She is more than ready. She will take everything Lexa has to give.

Lexa runs both hands along Clarke’s thighs, bringing them up to cup the swell of her ass. Clarke’s muscles clench instinctively, but Lexa doesn’t hit her the way she likes. Lexa doesn’t even dig her nails in. Her touch is gentle instead. She moves her warm palms in ever widening circles, fingertips brushing the very edge of the heat between Clarke’s legs without sliding within.

“You’re teasing,” Clarke mutters. Her head falls further forward between her shoulders, but one of Lexa’s hands slides up her back to grasp her by the hair.

“You are impatient.”

Lexa pulls her head up, not hard—but the gesture forces Clarke to see her own reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed and her blue eyes are just as hazy as Lexa’s green ones.

“You make me impatient. By teasing.”

Lexa’s other hand curls around Clarke’s hip, bracing her.

“Do you want me to stop?”

The tip of the leather cock comes to rest at Clarke’s entrance. It’s cool, but probably only because she is radiating needy heat. Even with the temperature difference, the blunt head feels good sliding against her. Lexa keeps it steady, allowing Clarke just enough range of movement to rub herself against it.

“No.”

“Then watch.” Lexa’s fingers comb through Clarke’s hair, not quite pulling, but encouraging her to keep her head raised. “Watch us.”

It’s an effort to keep her head raised, but Clarke obeys. She wants Lexa to fuck her. She’s willing to watch, if that’s what Lexa wants.

She is rewarded by the blissful stretch of Lexa’s shaft sinking into her. The head takes a few passes before it’s slick enough, but once Clarke has coated it with wetness, it pops inside with barely any effort. An inch of the thick length follows, and a deep moan vibrates from Clarke’s chest.

“Yes,” she hisses. “More,” she whines.  _ I love you, _ she thinks, but doesn’t say yet. She is saving that for the moment of no return, when Lexa will enjoy hearing it most.

Instead of giving her more, Lexa withdraws. She pulls out until the tip of the cock rests at Clarke’s entrance again. Clarke waits, but it isn’t until she remembers to lock eyes with her own reflection in the mirror that Lexa thrusts back in. She buries more of the shaft this time, and Clarke watches her own mouth fall open. She can’t help it. Lexa fills her like no one else.

While she stares, Lexa settles into a rhythm behind her. She strokes in and out, and Clarke sees her own breasts begin to sway. She watches herself take her bottom lip between her teeth without really feeling it. She sees Lexa moving behind her, watching the mirror as well. One lean arm is extended and her fingers are tangled in Clarke’s hair.

Clarke surrenders—not merely to Lexa, but to the moment. There is no more  _ Heda, _ no more  _ Wanheda. _ No more Commander and Ambassador. She forgets all the times Lexa almost died, the times when she nearly did too. She forgets the harsh world that she and Lexa are slowly trying to make better. She lets herself go, allowing her world to shrink until it’s just the two of them and the way their bodies are joined. She allows herself the relief of forgetting.

Instead, as Lexa fills her, she stares at their reflection and counts the reasons she is in love.

She is in love with the way Lexa’s eyes flick down to check on her each time her hips speed up, as if she doesn’t quite trust the mirror. As always, Lexa is looking out for her comfort.

She is in love with the way Lexa never lets go of her hair, forcing her to watch. Clarke knows it is Lexa’s silent way of saying:  _ This is real. This is happening. This is us. _

She is in love with how familiar Lexa’s hands are with her body, how they map the constellations of her freckles just as she has mapped Lexa’s scars. One cups around her hip and between her legs to tease her clit, and Clarke sees her reflection’s irises blow large.

It is so easy to be in love with Lexa. They have taken a long time to circle back to each other, have crossed the seemingly unbreachable gap of betrayal with nothing but trust and a prayer. But having come over the mountains, they can savor this, the fruits of the valley beyond.

When Lexa bends down over her back, not to get more leverage, but to urge her to rise fully onto her knees, Clarke allows it. She lets Lexa move them both upright, until she can see the entire front of her body: full breasts, round hips, soft stomach and thighs… the golden tuft of hair in between and the black leather shaft of Lexa’s cock splitting her pink lips open.

For a glittering moment, she sees herself through Lexa’s eyes. She is beautiful. She sees the ways Lexa loves her, a list as long as hers.

She closes her eyes for a moment. She doesn’t need to see anymore. An artist’s mind can remember. Instead, she places her hands on top of Lexa’s where they have come to rest around her stomach.

Lexa pushes up into her, and Clarke cries out. At this angle, the cock puts pressure right against her front wall with every stroke. Lexa thrusts again and again, and Clarke threads their fingers together, clutching tight. She will hold onto Lexa through anything.

Soon, Clarke realizes why Lexa is squeezing her hands so tight, why Lexa is pumping her hips so urgently, without true control in her rhythm. She is close. While Clarke has come once already, Lexa has not. Her body is taut and the way her muscles shift screams tension. She is a coiled spring, and Clarke cannot help but release her.

“ _ Ai hod yu in _ , _ Leksa, _ ” she says, her voice trembling.

Lexa’s reply is even breathier.  _ “ _ I love you too.”

Her hips jerk upwards, once… twice… then freeze.

Clarke opens her eyes in time to see Lexa’s face transform in the mirror. Her mouth falls open in a gasping smile. Her lashes kiss her golden cheeks. All her worry lines smooth out, and she looks her true age. The goddess has become human.

The moment of intimacy tugs at Clarke’s heart. In response, she tugs at Lexa’s hand. It twitches indecisively as she guides it down the slope of her belly, but Clarke has little trouble pressing Lexa’s fingers into her clit. Lexa is still wrapped up in her own climax, but somewhere between the twitching of her hips and her short, shallow thrusts, she manages to push.

It’s more than enough. With Lexa buried inside her and Lexa’s arms around her and Lexa’s fingers closed over the very heart of her, Clarke comes again. Her eyes blur with tears, but she tries her best to watch her pleasure as it passes through her face and rolls down her body to pulse between her legs. She squeezes Lexa’s shaft over and over, tightening and releasing, knowing from the way Lexa’s breathing stutters that her lover can feel some of the contractions.

There is a long list of reasons why Clarke loves Lexa, too long to list in a hundred years, but all of them lead to this moment.

The wave of emotion that has passed over her leaves Clarke far more drained than her physical release. Not merely satisfied, but overwhelmed with happiness, she lets her head slump backwards against Lexa’s shoulder. Lexa kisses her hair, then her lips, tender, but firm enough to remind Clarke that, yes, this is reality, and reality is better than any dream.

Even so, everything feels dreamlike as they part from each other, just a little. Lexa withdraws from her, and Clarke realizes her bath was for nothing, because she is a mess of sticky heat. But she doesn’t mind, because it is a reminder. She can wash herself again later. She is not ready to leave bed, or Lexa, yet.

Lexa has the same idea. She lies on her back to remove the leather shaft and harness, and Clarke lies beside her, trailing a hand across Lexa’s stomach. Her fingertips find the scar again. They are drawn there like magnets.

Her touch must be soothing, because Lexa seems far too content to get up and put her toys away. They end up somewhere at the foot of the bed as Lexa rolls to meet her. They stare at each other, Clarke stroking Lexa’s stomach and side, Lexa reaching out to clasp her arm.

Clarke doesn’t need to list the reasons she loves Lexa, because she carries them with her always.


End file.
